


Rift

by Allthegenericnamesweretaken (Dingsbums)



Series: Gravity Falls shorts [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Freeform, Gen, Introspection, Stanford Pines - Freeform, Teen rating for blood mention, The Author - Freeform, angst? More despair and bitterness honestly, atots, how the hell do i tag, stanford's pov, this focuses on his immediate thought process after re-entering this dimension in AToTS, to be on the safe side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7082395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dingsbums/pseuds/Allthegenericnamesweretaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse of the psych of Stanford Pines as he stumbled back into his absence of thirty years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rift

And there was air.  
Wet, moist, musty and static, crisp air clicked and sang a clear, heavy yet hauntingly familiar tune - it spilled into his lungs and pressed against his skin. It was barely distinguishable from that of other dimensions, but this... this was home. Earth.  
And... he couldn't believe it. He was tempted for a brief moment to stop and check - press his fingers to his temple in search of the differing consistency where the metal had been inserted.  
His chest ached with a sodden weight as he glimpsed his journal lying, torn and tattered as it had always been, on the ground, disregarded. It was a memoir - it was his life, his research and his worth condensed into the pages of ink-spillaged and illustrations.  
He was home.  
He grimaced, fighting and wrestling back a hot surge of emotion; panic and fear, shock and primarily a sudden, shooting relief. Now, Bill could have his reign - all he had ever cared for, cried for and worked so darn hard for would be lost for the price of him. Ford knew he was hardly a pure man, and as much as it pained him to say it, a good one. He tried to be, oh he tried. But some things were lost to necessity, and the weight of self-inspection had long pulled his skin sallow and worn. He glanced up, his eyes cold behind his glasses, to see his brother, love splashed across his features with a naivity - an abandon that sent white hot fury down Ford's veins. Stanley didn't know what he had done. He didn't know what was at stake. He had no idea. Nobody did. And it was infuriating.  
Stan didn't deserve it; Ford knew he didn't. But he couldn't deny it felt right. It felt right that this would be how he would great the world he had pined for for thirty years; not with an embrace as his brother had been hoping, but with an outburst of despair. He wasn't going to deny the levity of the circumstance and pretend it could be washed away in moments. Bill was back. Ford was back. The earth was spinning, and it was too fast to handle. Nobody knew, and nobody could, what was coming. Relief seemed a transgression to be denied, and his home and anchor were to be torn from the roots and burnt. He did all he could; he struck out at the face that was seemingly chiding him, though it wasn't he knew. There was little to be fixed in this world, and the bonds between himself and his brother were best left broken in a world that was falling apart. He allowed himself a moment as the world span, gathering himself. He was well practised in concealing his fright or panic- he converted it instead to anger. Deep, righteous, dishonest anger. He couldn't possibly be worth this. None of this.  
Thoughts flickered to dark hair, cold, yet comforting arms and a night spent by his mother on her window seat with the streetlamps flickering beneath them; Shermy screaming, his father's barely traceable nod and the sound of tyres screaching on wet tarmac. Hours, night and early mornings pouring over books and papers, ink dripping, the scent of warm coffee and banjo music, sulphurous smells and the familiar echoing, reverberating laughter that haunted the deepest recesses of his mind, and the hoarse, brittle screams as his oldest friend witnessed hell itself through mortal eyes. Nights laying awake, relaying the numbers, blood, blackened by candlelight dripping from utensils as he took whatever measures he could to flee the creeping cold possession brought, and the painfully cold invading sensation as he was drawn from everything he knew and loved. And a sunset, on a beach with a five-fingered hand intertwined with his.  
None of it at all.  
The anger was a rift, and he took it gladly.  
A rift, he thought, as the portal behind him sputtered and died.


End file.
